


In Dire Need of Assistance

by dottie_wan_kenobi



Series: And When Our Children Tell Our Story... [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1960s, Alexander Hamilton is George Washington's Biological Son, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, F/M, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healthy Relationships, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, Illegitimacy, Immigration & Emigration, Parent Death, Poverty, Rags to Riches, Separations, Step-parents, Step-siblings, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-04-25 14:42:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14380797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottie_wan_kenobi/pseuds/dottie_wan_kenobi
Summary: Alexander Hamilton survives losing his mother, being publicly outed as illegitimate but even more illegitimate than he had previously thought, and the Washingtons.“What I’m saying is this: George, you have a son. His name is Alexander Hamilton. He goes by Alex. His favorite color is green, but most of his clothes are blue. He has brown eyes and brown hair that he wears long until I force him to cut it. Alex is the smartest child I have ever seen; he writes essays for fun. There is so much more to say but I can’t express it all in a letter. You’ll have to learn it on your own, if you choose."





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [so long as you come home at the end of the day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5944084) by [herowndeliverance (atheilen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atheilen/pseuds/herowndeliverance). 



> Title of course comes from Right Hand Man.
> 
> Beta'd from [Cali](http://calihart.tumblr.com/), [Nik](https://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) and also my dad!
> 
> \---- I acknowledge Alexander Hamilton’s cheating and his relevant faults but I’m not comfortable writing it so there will be no cheating in this verse.  
> \---- Everything is set 200 years in the future from the canon era. I went with the ‘55 birthday for Alex, so in this verse, he was born on January 11th, 1955. Most other birthdays are the same way — exactly 200 years after their real birthday.  
> \---- My apologies to Martha Washington and her children — she only had Jacky and Patsy in this verse, not Daniel Jr and Frances. Jacky and Patsy will get good lives and live past 25 to make up for my erasure of the other kids.  
> \---- This is set in 1968, following Rachel's February 18th death.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PAST: George tells Martha about his first love.  
> PRESENT: Rachel Faucette dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning (small spoilers) -- Alex stays with the body of his mother for a few hours but it's not graphic at all.

**PAST**

Martha closes her eyes and leans her head back, more than happy to soak in the sun. It’s rained on and off for three days now, and she’s tired of it. Thank goodness for George, who’s capitalized on the opportunity to take her and the kids to the park. When he told them, Jacky had screamed with joy, and Patsy had clapped her hands in response to her brother. Now that they’re there, Jacky is already off making friends with other kids in the playground while little Patsy is confined to the picnic blanket. Enough toys have made their way out of the basket that she doesn’t have a problem with it.

Martha breathes in deep, enjoying the peaceful moment. Patsy’s babbling is like music to her ears, as is Jacky’s hysterical laughs and George’s humming. This is her family, truly, and though she still misses Daniel, the ache has lessened.

“Martha?” George asks, catching her attention. She knows instinctively it’s nothing to do with the children — they love George like a father and he like they’re his own. If something were wrong, he could handle it as well as she could.

He doesn’t look particularly disquieted. “Yes, dear?”

“There’s something I should tell you about. I… I haven’t been able to find the right time and I don’t want to push it off any longer.”

Martha sits up straighter and forces herself to not wonder why he would chose now, a peaceful moment, to air whatever this is out. “Okay….”

George meets her eyes, hands in his lap. “I want to tell you about my first love,” is what he says, a tad paler than usual. She notes, then, that his hands are clasped together, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips. He’s nervous, but she has no idea why. First loves aren’t always happy but he knows just how well her first love worked out.

She doesn’t laugh though she’s tempted to. Instead, she checks on Patsy and gestures for him to continue.

“You already know my brother, Lawrence, passed three, almost four years ago. Well, before he died, I took him and his wife on vacation, a sort of last hurrah together. I took them to islands of St. Kitts and Nevis in the Caribbean. When we went to Nevis, I met a woman named Rachel who I became quick friends with. We stayed for a month and a half, and in that time, Rachel and I grew closer.” He breaks eye contact now, glancing down at his hands and then to Jacky, still laughing with excitement. It’s how she keeps track of him — follow the laughing. “We spent a night together in her bed. She was married, and living with a common law husband who I hadn’t seen once. I told her I — no, actually, I’d like to keep that detail private. Anyway, I went back to where I was staying with Lawrence and Anne and saw her a few more times before we left, but we didn’t go to bed again. We haven’t been in contact since. I just thought you should know.”

Martha is only a little disappointed in that she wanted to be the one to introduce him to the wonders of sex. _But that’s alright,_ she thinks, _it just means he won’t be surprised and end it too early._ Instead, she asks, “Married and living with a common law husband?”

George gets a look in his eye that says he won’t stand for anyone defaming this woman. Martha wouldn’t (she’s merely curious), and also rather enjoys the look. Especially when it’s used in her or her children’s defense. “She told me her husband was abusive and refused to sign divorce papers. Her common law husband had gotten her pregnant and left for months at a time. She had no friends on the islands. You can’t blame her for seeking — “

“I don’t, George. I was just asking.” She smiles as he deflates, eyeing Jacky again. She glances his way, too, finding him just as well as last time. “So, she had a child?”

“Yeah. A son. I met him several times. He was only Patsy’s age at the time.”

She feels no jealousy for Rachel, only camaraderie. She knows too well what it’s like to have young children and an unreliable husband. Unreliable in a sense, at least. Bedridden is different from voluntarily leaving. Patsy’s hair is smoothed over by her hand, the thoughts propelling her to do it. Now that she and George are engaged, she won’t have to worry about him doing that to her. He’s too kind, too good.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says, meeting his eyes. “If she ever contacts you — all I ask is that you keep me informed about it.”

He nods. “I can do that.”

They share a smile, and Martha is going to say something else, something like ‘what was her son’s name?’ but Jacky runs up to their blanket then and accidentally steps on Patsy’s fingers and there’s too much to deal with to continue the conversation.

* * *

**PRESENT**

Maman dies early in the morning. James is already out when it happens, off to work even though he’s too young. No one asks how old he is, just if he can run their errands faster than other boys, and James is the fastest fifteen-year-old Alex knows. He works all day long. Neither one of them have gone to school in a while now, but Alex has been sick for at least a month.

It’s been longer for Maman, who caught it from Dad. _Dad,_ Alex thinks angrily and deliriously, _came back and got us sick and left again. I hope I never see him again._ Maman wouldn’t want him to think that, but what does it matter? She’s dead.

Alex can’t find the strength inside him to get out of the bed. He’s so sick, his whole body leaden weight. It’s hard to move, let alone think. So he stays in the bed for hours. Maman is still next to him, still under the blankets. He’d been watching when she took her last breath, but he doesn’t watch now.

He stares at the ceiling of their small apartment, as much like a home as they can make it when they’re too poor to eat some days, and thinks repeatedly, _Maman is dead. Maman is dead. Maman is dead._

He should call the police. They’ll come, and they’ll know what to do with her body. They don’t have a phone though, which means he would have to go to the neighbors’ place and use theirs.

It’s only when he thinks about James, and how James has no idea, that he tries to get up. His palms push against the mattress and tremble as he drags his legs under himself. Maman had laid on the outside of the bed, Alex by the wall. He pulls himself to the end of the bed and takes what must be minutes to get both legs off the side and then on the floor. They don’t hold him, they _can’t_ , so he falls. It takes all of his effort and focus to stand again, and this time, he uses the wall to keep himself upright. He stumbles again at the front door, almost falling down the steps leading in. Somehow, he catches himself in time.

Outside, it’s more difficult to move. There’s nothing to hold onto, and seemingly miles to go to the neighbors’ house. He knows it’s not that far, but the illness stretches it out until it looks impossible to cross. But Maman is dead, and he can’t leave her there, can’t let James find out hours and hours from now.

He manages it by holding his arms out for balance. Some distant part of his brain says he looks stupid, but it’s easy to ignore. It takes long minutes to get next door, and walking up their steps is a solid minute and a half of it.

When he knocks, it’s too soft. He tries again, and it’s too hard. The neighbors take a while to answer, or it feels like it at least, and he sways on their doorstep.

“What is it?” The man snaps even before the door is open wide enough for Alex to see him. He’s older, white, American, rich enough to move here but not rich enough to live somewhere nicer.

“I need to use your phone,” he rasps out, speaking for the first time since yesterday morning. “My Maman died. I need to call the police. Please. Please, sir.”

The neighbors don’t like his family. Too poor, too black. He hopes that they can get over that, though, and let him do this. He hopes they’re kind enough to let him call James’ work, too, after he calls the police.

The man stares at him for a long, long moment. Alex stares back, still swaying, mind chugging as fast as it can to process that _oh my god, Maman is dead._

A voice from inside, the man’s wife, calls out, “Who’s at the door?”

“One of the neighbor kids!” The man calls back, “Apparently, the hippie bitch is dead!”

Alex has heard that and worse about his Maman and brother and himself enough that he can’t muster any anger. Not anymore, not right now. He desperately needs to use their phone and pissing the man off won’t help him do that. “Please, sir,” he says again.

The man sighs and steps aside. “Fine. But we don’t need your illness, so once you’re done, get out.”

Alex gratefully does just that. And when they kick him out to wait for the ambulance, he ambles back to his home (did he leave the door open like that?) and sits on the front steps. He hates being pitied, but it’s too easy to fall apart for all and sundry to see him. When the ambulance arrives, he’s still sitting there, sobbing his heart out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment please <3


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PAST: Alexander Hamilton is born.  
> PRESENT: George finds out Rachel is dead and resolves to be at her funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually believe that GWash was infertile (or ace I guess) but in this fic, he's not...yet.

**PAST**

 

Rachel doesn’t bother trying to go to the hospital. They won’t admit her for anything, not even this. She tells herself it makes her closer to her Maman, who gave birth at home too. James Junior was born at home, but it was different — James was at her side. Here, now, all she has is a midwife and James Junior, frightened out of his skull. It hurts to see him this way.

The midwife tells James Junior, “Go wet the washcloth again, sweetie.”

He’s much too young to have so much responsibility on his shoulders. His father should be here, holding her hand, coaching her through her breathing. She can’t focus on him, though, as a contraction clenches in her. The pain is awful, so much worse than with Peter and James Junior, and she cries out with it. James Junior comes back, putting the rag on her forehead. Through bleary eyes, she sees that he’s crying. Oh, she wants to hold him to her, comfort him, tell him she’ll be okay even though there are no doctors.

“James,” she says, and immediately has his attention. “Calm down. It’s okay. I’ll be okay. We need you to be calm.”

“Okay, Maman,” he replies and tries, for a moment, to calm his breathing. But then the midwife calls that it’s time to push, and he begins to panic again. “Maman! Let me hold your hand!”

“No, no,” she strains, pushing. Yelling, she throws her head back, and pants like she’s out in the heat. Her hands are closed into tight fists, nails too short to cut skin but still stinging her palms. She knows with all the certainty in her that she’d hurt him if they held hands.

Rachel pushes for over half an hour, and during it all, James Junior is by her side, wailing in anxiety but crying silently. She and the midwife try to tell him the pain will go away and then he’ll have a new sibling but it doesn’t work. Only when Rachel falls to the bed, suddenly feeling bereft, a baby’s cries filling the air, does James Junior calm down.

“It’s a boy!” The midwife calls at the same time James Junior says, “Maman! I have a brother! I have a brother!”

_ A boy _ , she thinks, joy and anxiety and all sorts of other emotions welling inside of her.  _ A boy. _

The midwife cleans him up and sets the baby in her arms.

“What will you name him?” The midwife asks, watching the scene she and her boys make with a fond smile.

Rachel has thought long and hard about names. There are so many she wanted to pick, but she knew that, boy or girl, this baby would have to be a fighter. She knew then that the baby needed a strong name.

“Alexander. Alexander Hamilton.”

Nevermind the fact that he’s no Hamilton.

* * *

**PRESENT**

 

_ Celebrating the life of _

_ Rachel Faucette _

_ July 26th, 1929 - February 18th, 1968 _

_ Come & pay respects at her funeral _

_ Details enclosed _

 

George can’t believe his eyes.

Rachel is dead. Passed three days ago, it says on the invitation. Her funeral is in two. If he’s going to attend (and he’s going to attend, no question), he has very little time to get ready and book a flight. His travel agent won’t be happy with him, he knows, but he’ll just pay a little more. He thinks he’d do a lot to make it there on time.

“George? Honey?” Martha calls from the hall, knocking on the door of his study.

He tries to speak but nothing comes out. After clearing his throat, he answers, “Come in.”

The door opens, and there’s Martha, his beloved wife. She’s not wearing her I Love Lucy apron, which must mean breakfast is ready. A quick glance at the clock mounted on his wall proves he’s right.

“Breakfast calls,” she teases. George smiles as something constricts in his chest. Now that she’s been brought back to his mind, Rachel wants to stay. Unfortunately, his thoughts stray to the fact that Rachel wasn’t that much older than them. What are the chances one of them is next? Martha interrupts the spiraling line of thought by stepping closer to his desk, clearly seeing the invitation still in his hand. “What’s that?”

He sighs, weary. “A funeral invitation.”

Martha gasps through her nose, hand coming up to clutch at her pearls like a blushing belle of the ball. “Whose?”

“Rachel Faucette,” he says, and clarifies, “My first love.”

It’s clear she remembers their conversation from so long ago. “Oh my. I am…so sorry, honey. Are you wanting to go?”

He nods. Knowing Martha, she’ll be fine with it. She’s never been the jealous type, except for when Mrs. King is around. Then she has no qualms speaking about the wonderful state of their marriage, still going strong after nine years, almost ten. Mrs. King, they both know, is rather neglected by Mr. King, and looks to take out her feelings on George…or with George. They often sympathize with her situation, but only behind her back. In the moment, it’s always easier to show off.

“When is it? My mother has been asking when she can come visit again.”

“It’s…,” he checks again, “The twenty-third.” It’s pretty easy to not respond to her comment about her mother.

“That’s in two days.”

“It is. I’m going to have to go to the travel agency today if I want a flight on time.”

Martha settles onto the edge of his desk, legs outstretched and body facing him. For a moment, they’re both silent, Martha in thought and George waiting to hear what she has to say. Through the door, which Martha had left open, they hear Jack (not Jacky anymore — “I’m too old for such a babyish nickname!”) playing music over his record player.

“Should we all come? I mean, if it were Daniel, I wouldn’t want to go alone. And at the very least, it’d be a way for the kids to get out of the house.”

George had briefly entertained the thought — not going alone. It might be easier and cheaper to go alone, but he can’t think of anything he wants more than to have Martha and the children at his side there. Jack and Patsy might not understand or care, considering they never met or even heard that much about Rachel, but it will provide the opportunity of connecting them to the rest of the world. Also comfort him, in case he needs it, which he suspects he will. The idea had been scrapped, since he was positive Martha wouldn’t be interested. Clearly, he was wrong.

“That would be — I’d like that,” he stumbles. He reaches out, takes her hand. It’s easy to be tactile in moments like these. “I’ll call the agency, you call their school?”

“George.”

“What?”

“Breakfast first. Then we’ll start on that. Okay?”

He inhales deeply as she stands and beckons him to follow her. He does, and as he closes the door behind him, he says, “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment please <3


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PAST: James Hamilton leaves, seemingly forever, and Rachel, James Jr, and Alex are on their own.  
> PRESENT: The funeral happens. The Washingtons, Hamiltons, and Laviens come crashing together through the reading of a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible warning for second hand embarrassment/cringe in the present. Discussion of human ashes. Sort of implied abuse.
> 
> This is Rachel's funeral/memorial, so please take caution when reading.

**PAST**

Rachel and James don’t actually argue that often. The problem is, when they do argue, it’s explosive and it always ends the same way — with James leaving for months at a time, stewing in his anger and probably off fucking white girls he’s not stuck with. Rachel herself is absolutely stuck — stuck in a shitty home with two children who can’t get along to save their lives. On top of that, they’re both more reckless than she ever was at their ages, and running around after them, making sure they don’t accidentally kill themselves on the docks is a full time job.

So is dealing with James, she grumbles to herself as she hand washes their laundry. It’s a hot day, and maybe she wouldn’t mind that so much if the water were cooler or more shade was cast on her. Unfortunately for her, there’s no way to change those things without wasting time. 

The chore itself takes several hours, if the gathering of clothes and then drying and folding them counts. She isn’t sure if James does or not, considering the stunt he pulled this morning.

_ “Shut up and do your chores. Be a good wife for once.” He stood tall and proud and indignant. One hundred percent certain he was in the right. _

_ “I am not your wife,” she snapped back. _ And for good fucking reason.  _ “And no matter what you think, you are not the boss of this house. You barely live here! Don’t order me around like you have any authority in this house!” _

Asshole.

She does the chore anyway, if only because she knows her boys need her to do it for them still. No seven year old should be doing this, much less a five year old.

When she finally comes back inside the house, she expects said children to be playing or roughhousing or something. They’re always being loud — it’s how she keeps track of them. 

Follow the noise, find her boys. Except…it’s silent. Their radio is quiet; the only sound seems to come from the ceiling fan in the living room. Rachel sets her basket down on the floor, anxiety clenching in her gut, and calls out, “Boys?”

Much to her relief, Alexander calls back, “In here, Maman!”

She finds both boys in the bedroom, hiding under the covers. Leaning up against the door jamb, she asks, “What’s going on?”

James Junior tells her, “Dad left.”

It’s not uncommon, him saying that. He said it just — oh, five months ago? Whenever it was last James decided to leave again. 

There’s nothing about the way he says it that is different from the last time. What separates this and all the others, however, is the dresser. A present from her mother, it mostly holds James’ and the boys’ clothes. All the drawers with James’ clothes are open, almost all the way out, and empty.

Rachel stands there for a long, long moment, just staring.

James has never gone this far when he left. He’s always left something behind, if only for the excuse to come back and get it. But not this time, clearly.

“Maman?” Alexander whimpers; Rachel snaps out of it, turns to look at him. She tries for a comforting smile but isn’t sure she gets it right. “I’m scared.”

At that, Rachel can do nothing else but hurry to the bed, pull her younger boys into a hug. James Junior doesn’t resist but doesn’t exactly reciprocate, whereas Alexander clutches himself to her in a vice grip. “Oh, honey, no, don’t be. It’s okay. You still have me, and your brother. We’ve all got each other. We’ll be okay.”

She’ll make sure of it.

* * *

**PRESENT**

Maman’s funeral is the worst thing Alex has ever seen in his entire life and that’s really saying something.

There are almost no people there, for one thing. Apparently all the supposed friends Maman had at one point couldn’t be chuffed to come pay their respects. What’s worse is that her husband does come — Mr. Johan Lavien and his son, Alex’s half brother, Peter. The Laviens stare obviously at James and Alex. Mr. Lavien looks angry, but Peter just looks sad. James says he wants to ask Mr. Lavien who he’s looking at, make a fight out of it, but Alex begs him not to — not today, please, not today. He can’t handle being sick still, and losing his Maman, and having to deal with a fight. He just can’t.

Dad is there, too, as drunk as he has ever been. He keeps James and Alex between him and the Laviens. Quite literally — they’re sitting down in front of a memorial to her, a container holding her ashes (it’s all they could afford), and there’s only one seat on either side of James and Alex separating them from Dad and the Laviens. Alex, because life really hates him, is on the Lavien side.

What he uses to distract himself is the other people here. A white couple and their children, who talk amongst themselves, sounding distinctly American. He can’t eavesdrop too obviously, but he hears snippets anyway. Apparently, they’ll be going to the market place after this.

Alex looks down at his hands, positive that the strangers are tourists who have no good reason to be here. It’s infuriating.

The service starts, and they all fall quiet.

It goes on for ages. Alex can barely sit still long enough for any reason whatsoever, but especially this. They’re all supposed to say something, but the Laviens don’t have anything good to say, Dad is too drunk, and James too upset. So Alex goes up to the podium and tries to remember anything he decided to say.

He stands there for a moment and stares at the whole eight other people who came. James can barely meet his eyes, and Dad isn’t looking at the podium, but the rest of them are. He’s being watched by people he hates and people he doesn’t know and he has to give a rousing speech about his Maman. Taking in a deep breath, Alex begins.

“My Maman, Rachel Faucette, was a fighter. I think we all know being black in this world closes a lot of doors, and it certainly did for her, but she never let that stop her. She had her own corner store that she ran almost single-handedly. We never had a lotta money but what we did, she made herself. Didn’t need a no good husband or boyfriend to take care of her. Or us. She was an amazing mother, an outstanding person, a — “

He coughs hard enough it hurts his chest. No matter how much he wants to tell this little group every detail of his Maman’s life, he can’t. He has to move on. “I could go on like that forever. James… James told me to talk about good memories I have of her. I have a lot, of course, but the one I remember most was the time I almost broke my arm falling off a tree. I panicked and tried to hide it from her. She knew somehow and calmed me down, and I’ve just… never forgotten that.”

The story is missing many details. Like the fact that he cried his eyes out on her chest, and that they both knew he’d been told not to climb trees and got hurt but she didn’t berate him until the next day. Until it’d stopped hurting. He can’t say them; they refuse to be spoken. It’s too personal, or maybe he’s still sick enough that his brain is sluggish.

Instead of forcing them, he tells other stories. He talks for maybe a half hour, rambles for part of it when he gets too tired to remember what he wrote, and is forced offstage by Dad yelling, “Enough, Alexander!”

James helps him down the steps and back into his seat. He’s struck with sudden exhaustion and finds he can’t care or be embarrassed.

The unknown guy goes up on stage, too, and clears his throat. “I don’t know most of you. I’m sure most of you don’t know me. My name is George — uh, George Washington. I knew Rachel for a short few months thirteen years ago. She was my first love, but more importantly, my friend.” He smiles, and Alex feels simultaneously angry and stupefied. It’s a familiar grin. But this is his Maman’s funeral and he’s smiling? “I was going to recount a memory but I believe her son here managed just fine.”

Dad laughs. Somehow Alex doesn’t think George Washington meant it as a joke. He also thinks the name is familiar — where has he heard it before? Wracking his ailing brain does nothing.

“I will say that she was one of the most amazing people I have ever had the pleasure to know.” 

Then he tries to step down, but the priest reaches out and stops him.

“George Washington, you said? I have a letter for you from Rachel.”

Alex’s breath catches in his throat. His Maman didn’t write much.  _ Too busy, _ she always said,  _ and anyway, I don’t want to be remembered from just words. I want you to tell stories about me to your children. _ Somehow she knew she wouldn’t make it long enough to meet one. Alex’s eyes heat up and he has to look up to the ceiling and blink hard to fend off tears.

“A letter?” George asks, not taking the flimsy piece of paper in the priest’s hands.

“Yes. She gave it to me before she got sick, said if she passed, I was to read it to you.” He opens it, and Alex thinks,  _ wait stop that’s private! _ , but it’s too late.

“ _ Dear George, _

“ _ I know we never talked again after you left despite my promise, and for that, I’m sorry. But I had good reason — I was pregnant. I told my husband that the baby was his and he believed me. I didn’t need to tell you, I couldn’t. The baby would a have a father. But I realize now what I did by deciding that myself. I deprived both of you of the truth. I did what I needed to, and I stand by that, but I do regret keeping you apart. _

“ _ What I’m saying is this: George, you have a son. His name is Alexander Hamilton. He goes by Alex. His favorite color is green, but most of his clothes are blue. He has brown eyes and brown hair that he wears long until I force him to cut it. Alex is the smartest child I have ever seen; he writes essays for fun. There is so much more to say but I can’t express it all in a letter. You’ll have to learn it on your own, if you choose. _

“ _ You’re only getting this letter if I die. I don’t want my boys split up but Alex rightfully goes to you. I know this situation is difficult and I know you have a wife. It would mean the world, everything, to me and to Alex if you took care of him. If you loved him. It’s a lot to ask for, I know that. But I know you, George, and I know you will make the right choice for you and yours, and Alex and me. _

“ _ I hope this doesn’t feel like I’m forcing you. Please don’t do it out of obligation — do it because you want to. _

“ _ Sincerely, _

“ _ Rachel Faucette. _ ”

Is that blood rushing in Alex’s ears or pure panic? Or is he getting worse by the minute?

And did Maman say that this man is his real dad?

  
  
  


Alex has no clear memory of what transpires next, and hears it instead from George Washington’s children, Jack and Patsy.

Mr. Lavien stands up, declares Maman “a whore of the worst sort”, and drags Peter out of the room. Dad gets terribly angry and tells Alex, “I don’t have anything to do with you anymore. You’re on your own, bastard,” and drags James kicking and screaming away from Alex. (It makes his heart twist with pain. Is he ever going to see his brother again?) The priest manages to look sheepish and says, “Maybe I was supposed to just give it to you. I didn’t quite hear what she said, you see…,” and backs away. That just leaves Alex by himself, and the Washingtons.

He tunes in there, realizing his brother is gone and so is everyone else in his small sphere of people.

George is still on the stage. He says something Alex doesn’t pay attention to — all Alex focuses on is getting the container of ashes. There’s no one else to take it except him. He gets his hand on it, lifts it gingerly and brings it to his chest, just as someone’s hand comes down on his shoulder.

Alex instinctively clutches his Maman’s ashes closer to his chest, too used to things being taken from him to drop the container.

“Alexander?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment <3
> 
>  
> 
> [ Find me on tumblr here.](www.jedormis.tumblr.com)


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PAST: George is hit by a car.  
> PRESENT: Alex does not want to go with the Washingtons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a character getting hit by a car, a character suffering infertility, and a few thoughts along the lines of "I couldn't seem to die" as well as a mention of cousin Peter's suicide, which I moved up for the purposes of fic. Some mentions of sex though they are in no way graphic. A small mention of abuse. Finally, a good amount of angst.
> 
> This chapter is the longest one so far!

**PAST**

George wakes up in a hospital room.

The first thing he notices is Martha’s perfume in the air, indescribable except for plain ‘familiar’, and it makes him settle into the uncomfortable bed immediately. He has no idea when he tensed in the first place, but he does know that all of his muscles feel like spaghetti noodles. They used to feel that way after a game in high school, and especially when he was cooling off after his military training exercises. It’s not a pleasant feeling. 

“Martha?” He mumbles, but it sounds wrong. Like he said something else, but underwater.

“Oh! Oh, George, honey,” he hears, and then his beautiful wife is there, eyes red and shiny with tears. He hates to see her this way, and tries to lift a hand to wipe the tears away, but it hurts too much. She tells him, “Stop it, don’t move so much. The doctor…. He should be here soon. Jacky, go tell a nurse at the station that your father has woken up, please.”

George hears rather than sees his step-son hurry from the room, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. Patsy comes up to the bed, still so short he has to turn his neck to see her. She has red eyes, too, and he curses himself for whatever happened because Patsy doesn’t need more stress in her life. They stare at each other for a moment before George says, “Hello, my darling girl.”

Instead of being comforting like he’d hoped, his usual greeting for her is met with a choked-on sob. She hides it in Martha’s side, but George still hears. It’s heart wrenching.

He blinks, and suddenly a doctor is in the room, Jacky and Patsy standing together a little ways away. Jacky isn’t very good at being sensitive, but he does a great job now, from what George sees. He has his arms around her, and lets her hide her face away while he looks on, a knight in shining armor.

“Honey, do you remember what happened?”

“What?” George croaks, suddenly tuning into his wife and the doctor. They’re both looking at him with great concern. It chafes.

“Mr. Washington, we both asked if you can remember what happened that led you to being here.”

George tries to do so, but finds he can’t. Martha, the kids, and himself were at the park, weren’t they? And George told Martha about Rachel…or was that a different time? There’s a hole in his memories and he hates it immediately. He doesn’t like not knowing. “No. Nothing. Except…were we at a park?”

Martha had deflated at some point — with this, she is back to her full volume, hope shining in her eyes. “Yes, we were.”

The doctor puts a hand on her arm, tells her, “Be careful to not reveal anything to him he doesn’t come to on his own.”

She nods and promises not to, and has the children promise as well.

After that, the doctor has more to say. Apparently George has suffered grievous injuries due to being hit by a car, among those injuries being a severe concussion and contusions. No one tells him anything else about the apparent crash.

It annoys the blazes out of him, but he forgets his annoyance often enough it has no impact.

 

 

George gets better eventually. He recalls the day better and better as the weeks go by — taking the children to a park where they could swim, forgetting the sunblock in the car, going to get it and being hit by a car that wasn’t paying attention to pedestrians.

He’s had a concussion twice before and expects this time will be no different from the others. He got terrible migraines and vomited once the second time, much to the horror of his brother. They had hardly been serious, and a few days of rest had done the trick.

Yet the weeks go by and George finds he is still dizzy, still unable to focus, still far more irritable than is usual for himself.

Martha takes him to the hospital again, almost three weeks out, while the children are at school. They wait for a half an hour before they’re seen, and only to be told they have to scan his brain  _ immediately _ . The doctor seems quite certain that George has a more severe brain injury than a concussion, and blinks at them owlishly after he says it could cause George’s death.

Martha clutches him to her side, terribly frightened, and George pushes away all his own worries to soothe hers. “I’ll be alright, dear,” he vows, and kisses her right there. The doctor looks away.

George gets the scans done by that night, money easing the way. He talks to the children over the phone, as well as Martha who left around noon at his insistence. He promises again that he’s fine, that he’ll be home in the morning, and that he loves them all more than he can possibly ever say.

 

 

The scans say that George has something called a TBI — traumatic brain injury. It’s the most vague term he can think of, and it only makes Martha’s and Patsy’s anxieties worse. The doctors say it’s not a “bad case”, and expect a full recovery.

They let him go home after three days of observation, though he’s to take it easy and not work at his previous pace. His superiors are contacted and updated before he leaves the hospital. He’s put on R&R officially, and on the way home, he stares out the window and wonders what he’s going to do until he’s better. It’s hard to imagine anything interesting.

Of course, the moment he and Martha get home, Jacky rushes to his side and cries his little heart out, in front of his sister and the babysitter and all of god and sundry. Patsy glues herself to his side soon after, and very quickly he finds that his break will be spent like this — his wife watching as their children refuse to let go of him.

  
  


Recovery is slow and difficult and boring.

One of the few upsides is that the weekdays are long stretches of children-free time, which George and Martha spend well. They still lock the door, shut the blinds, have slick on hand — but no condoms. 

Jacky and Patsy are amazing children and George loves them as his own. They have allowed him thus far to take on the role of their father, trusted him, and loved him right back. But they aren’t biologically his, and Jacky especially has no problem telling people that George is his  _ step _ -father. Not to mention, they don’t look much like him, or act like him. 

He and Martha talked about this not long before the accident. Other points included that Jacky and Patsy are growing like weeds and Martha enjoys having them stay in the nest, and also that they love each other and want a baby that’s the physical representation of their love.

They try almost every day to conceive such baby, but nothing happens. Martha’s monthly stays monthly, she doesn’t swell, and she becomes increasingly dependent on old wives’ tales that fail to work.

  
  


Apparently this is another sign of that TBI.

Infertility.

He and Martha don’t try again. They still find pleasure and companionship in each other, in their bed, but never again do they get their hopes up.

George Washington will never have a biological child.

* * *

**PRESENT**

“Alexander.”

Alex turns.

It’s George, which doesn’t surprise him. “Sir,” he says, unsure of what else there is  _ to  _ say.

George’s face sort of…falls, but he quickly replaces it with a small smile. Alex supposes it’s meant to seem friendly and welcoming. “I’m…. I’m not sure how to go about this, truthfully. I’ve never had a …,” he pauses, and Alex can’t stop his tongue.

“A bastard, sir?”

That gets a rise out of him. He stares at Alex, eyes dark. “Don’t say that again. You aren’t a bastard.”

_ I am, _ he wants to say.  _ I am a bastard. If what Maman said was true, and you are my dad, then I am without a doubt a bastard.  _ But he doesn’t want to anger George so quickly, so he looks down at the ground, mumbles, “Sorry.”

With a sigh, George rubs at his face, cheeks noticeably red. It’s almost funny to Alex — this man feeling embarrassment. It seems impossible, yet here is the proof. When he lowers his hands, George makes a point to meet Alex’s eyes. “My apologies,” he says, sounding sincere enough. “This is not how I want this to go. It’s not my place, yet, to reprimand you. Why don’t we go over there, with my wife?” She’s watching them, eyes not revealing her thoughts, while her children sit on either side of her, gaping at Alex. It’s uncomfortable and annoying and suddenly, the last thing he wants to go over there.

Alex says, “Sir, I’m not sure that — “

“There’s no one else here, Alexander. Just meeting them doesn’t mean you’ll be coming home with us.” Though that is exactly what George here wants, and Alex, sick or not, can see that a mile away.

He gives in. He follows George to his wife and children. He greets them, but doesn’t shake their hands. “I don’t wanna get you sick,” he explains, worried about what Jack and Patsy here think of him. It’s dumb, he tells himself, because he is not going with them anywhere. Wherever they live, it’s too far away. Actually —

“Where do you live?” He asks, thinking of Florida or possibly Texas. They don’t have that drawl, but they’re American, and they probably didn’t come far for a funeral of someone only one of them barely knew.

“Virginia,” George answers, “In America.”

“Virginia? Isn’t that — “

“It’s on the East Coast. It was the very first colony,” Patsy proclaims proudly. She looks at him like she wants him to be impressed by this. Alex, distantly, thinks he should try. But most of him is too drained to feign anything positive like that. Instead, he turns to George again.

Attempting to not sound like a child, he says, “Well, I don’t want to go to Virginia. I want to stay here.”

George and Mrs. (”Call me Martha, please, dear.”) Washington share a look. Alex has heard of these looks in the novels he reads — looks that pass between people so close to each other, they don’t have to speak to be heard. To communicate. He’s almost fascinated, would be for sure if he had the brain power. Then Mrs. Washington looks away first, right at Alex, and Alex is less amazed by it. Clearly, they used it to talk about what to do with him.

“Do you have anywhere to go?”

_ Easy _ , Alex thinks, telling her without further thought, “My cousin, Peter,” and then recalls that  _ oh yeah _ , Peter killed himself five months ago. “Uh.”

Mrs. Washington raises an eyebrow. “How old is this cousin Peter?”

“I — I spoke before I thought, ma’am. Peter passed almost six months ago.” Alex swallows hard, the memories from that horrible day and week and month bubbling up like bile in his throat. “I don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Jack asks him, head tilted.  _ He looks nothing like George _ , Alex thinks. His chin and nose are different, his eyebrows and ears reminiscent of Mrs. Washington. He doesn’t know how he feels about it.

“Have somewhere else to go. Except the orphanage.” He shudders to even imagine living there.

George and Mrs. Washington seem to have the same feelings about it that he does, though he’s not sure why — stories about it don’t exactly get around to tourists. Maybe orphanages in America are as bad as they are here.

Mrs. Washington reaches out, but her halts in the air. Her fingers curl, and she returns her hand to her lap. “We should come up with a compromise. Would that be okay?”

Alex nods reluctantly, sitting down at long last on one of the comfortable chairs. Maman’s ashes sit in his lap.  _ A compromise. I can work with that. _

 

 

The five of them decide that Alex should spend the weekend and Monday with them. Once those days are over, they’ll decide as a group if they want Alex to come to Virginia with them, and if one disagrees they’ll have to work it out or let it be. Alex will stay with the Stevens in the event that he doesn’t go with them. Alex seems to be the only one sure that he’ll stay.

Jack and Patsy are overjoyed to hear they’ll be missing another day of school. Alex stares at the floor as they cheer, furious that they’re happy to skip when he’d be happy to be allowed to go at all. He doesn’t tell them that, but from the look on George’s face, he knows something about it. Or thinks he does, at least.

Alex has no other choice but to go with them. He prepares to beg and plead to go back to the house, where all his stuff still is. His clothes and reading glasses chief among them, though he really only wants his books. He has so few, it’s been terrible being unable to read them while he’s been ill.

There’s no argument, though — George and Mrs. Washington take him and their children happily. George has a very nice car, with enough seats that no one has to sit in the boot, like most kids here do. At first, Jack and Patsy both want to sit on the sides, but George reminds them that Alex is sick and needs to be able to breathe in the air. It’s not true but so long as he doesn’t have to sit between them, he doesn’t care.

When they get there, Jack starts to say something (”Why’s it — “) but Mrs. Washington shushes him.

“Do you want us to come with you?”  She asks him.

He shakes his head. Dad isn’t here, and inexplicably, Alex is stung by embarrassment. He’s lived here for a while now, and has perhaps been desensitized to it, but through the eyes of these Americans — these well-to-do Americans who he’ll be living with for a few days — he sees it in a new light. It’s cheap, run down, clearly in disrepair. Small, too, and they must be wondering what it’s like to live like this. No, he doesn’t want them to come with him and see the inside, see just how bad it’s gotten since Maman got sick. 

It goes faster with just himself, anyway. He knows what he wants and knows what to carry it in, and doesn’t have to worry that any of his books are being harmed. Maybe he’s a little ridiculous about his books, but they’re his prized possessions, the only way he can make something of himself, and he refuses to give them up. If one of the pages tore, well, he’d learn to read around it.

 

 

By Sunday, Alex is more used to living in a hotel with four other people than he ever thought he would be. He’s also worryingly comfortable with them.

He’s been feeling better, the sickness finally loosening its grip on him. It allows him to show the Washingtons around more, taking the less busy streets and seeing the actually interesting sights. On these trips, he learns more about them — George is a senator, Martha (yes he calls her Martha now and it concerns him greatly) is a secretary of sorts for a different worker in the same building as George, Jack and Patsy aren’t George’s children, Jack plays little league, and Patsy has been playing piano since she was tall enough to do it. He doesn’t have to pretend to be interested, either. George and Martha’s jobs are endless wells of conversation, for him at least. Jack and Patsy often switch it back to themselves, and tell him all sorts of exploits and tales. Apparently, life in Virginia is very different from life in Charlestown.

Another way he’s getting too comfortable, literally, is the sleeping arrangements. He and Jack sleep on the second hotel room bed, while George and Martha sleep on the first and Patsy on a cot. Alex is used to sharing with James or Maman, especially on less comfortable beds. This is different, and somehow not. When they wake up in the morning (very early — Alex has been writing out the issues he’s found with living with them, and the wake up time is top of the list), Alex feels an odd sense of nostalgia. They go to eat breakfast at a cafe on Friday and Saturday mornings, and by Sunday morning, it feels natural as anything.

Which is a problem.

He won’t admit to himself why it’s a problem, but the reasoning doesn’t matter.

After breakfast, Martha asks what they should do next, and Patsy suggests the beach even though it’s cold. Alex begs off, claiming he’s seen too much of the ocean to find beauty in it on a cold day, and stays at the hotel while they leave. He watches from the window, and makes sure they’re gone before he packs up all of his belongings. There are two more books and a new pair of shoes, all presents from George and Martha. He feels guilty for taking them, and sorta wants to leave what they bought him here, but he can’t bear to part from the new books and he has to wear the shoes. He notices that his hands are shaking as he finds space for them in his backpack, which is too small to carry everything. He has another bag, also bought by the Washingtons, and it carries all of his clothes. They feel less important than his books, which are his whole world, an escape from this island.

Some part of his brain tells him,  _ If you go with them, you’ll actually escape _ . But pride and fear and all sorts of other emotions squash that down.

When they’ve been gone for twenty minutes and he’s positive they won’t be back any time soon, he leaves.

There really is nowhere for him to go. The Stevens thing isn’t well thought out, to be honest. The only way he’d be able to stay with them is if he begs Mrs. Stevens, and somehow Mr. Stevens convinces her. So he’s stuck walking aimlessly. He’s scared to travel along the roads, but as long as he goes the opposite direction of the beach, he should be fine. Right?  _ Right? _

 

Alex looks over his shoulder every time he hears a car coming, absolutely certain that it’s George, furious with him and coming to take him back to the hotel. He hasn’t raised a hand to any of them. Alex might’ve thought it was because he’s with them and it’s being hidden, but Patsy and Jack don’t seem abused. Abused kids don’t barter with their parents over anything, much less chores (cleaning up messes and making the beds even though there are maids). And parents that are abusive certainly don’t take on more children unless it’s by accident.

This is no accident, and George is not abusive, and Alex is not going to get caught until they’re off the island.

He tells himself this repeatedly, trying to reassure himself. It doesn’t work, though he does imagine that he’d be an easy target for a kidnapping. He clutches his bag tighter to his side, tries one-handed to tighten the straps of the backpack so it’s as close to his body as possible.

Walking is difficult, he finds. It’s easy when you have somewhere to go, easy if it’s a short walk, easy especially if the road is flat and straight. Alex has no destination, which means it’s a long walk, and all of the back roads aren’t well cared for. There are other people out, but they all avoid his eye like the plague, and Alex doesn’t blame them. He avoids their eyes just as much and tries not to trip over the loose rocks everywhere. It’s frustrating. Worse is the way his skin is cold from the wind, nose starting to drip again, while the sun heats him up on the inside like he’s a pressure cooker. It makes him feel feverish again, which only brings back memories of Maman in the early stages, just a cough and sneeze here and there.

Trying to push those away do nothing but make them  _ stay _ , make them stick to the forefront of his mind like a snail on a wall. Every wish to not think of Maman brings a new memory, and before he knew it, hot tears were sliding down his cheeks. He tries to push through it, tries to blink them away, but it becomes all too much all at once, and he finds himself sitting on the side of the road, shaded by a tree, sobbing his heart out.

There’s too many things to pin the tears on — Maman dying, James being taken away, having to choose between staying in the only place he knows but will never allow him to grow, and a place he has never been with people he barely knows but  _ will  _ provide more opportunities, the desperation of being alone and with nowhere to go except places he won’t be safe (the orphanage, the overcrowded homeless shelter, or… the street), the guilt of taking things bought by people he can’t be sure are well-intentioned, the confusion over just who his real father is….

He doesn’t know how long he cries for. The outside world might as well be another country for all he pays attention to it.

Cars drive by and none of them stop. He doesn’t want them to, doesn’t want to be found this way. It’s humiliating, crying like a baby, and he tries to stop, tries to hitch his breath back to normal and wipe away the tears and snot. It doesn’t work.  _ Nothing works, _ he bemoans, sniffling.  _ Nothing, not even dying. How pathetic a creature am I. _

That sets him off again, thoughts going in circles and making it all worse.

A car stops on the side of the road. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t have the strength to lift his head enough to see even the tires of it, just braces himself for whatever’s next.

He can honestly say he’s not expecting a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay sooooo I have to say, I did very little research about how much was known about TBI around 1960. I did some research about infertility, and [it said](https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/male-infertility/symptoms-causes/syc-20374773) that it's mostly caused by old age or something wrong with your hormones among other causes. And I thought "maybe this is a stretch but what about TBI? It can technically affect your endocrine system which affects your reproductive system which means George can't have any more kids............."  
> Idk pls just suspend your belief for this lol
> 
> [Find me on tumblr.](http://jedormis.tumblr.com) And as always, please leave a comment <3


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PAST: Rachel tells Alexander about George...as a bedtime story.  
> PRESENT: Alexander gets that hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god. I am so sorry this took so long. As I said back in June to a commenter, I had 3k of this written and I had a lot of it done pretty soon after I posted the last chapter. But then writers block hit me so hard that I couldn't stand to look at the words I'd written, and life got in the way, and yeah. I ended up scrapping a lot of what I had written. I like what I have here a lot more (tho I will admit it's not betad and was written a lot late at night dfdalkdjfkasj)

**PAST**

“Maman, tell me a story! Tell me a story!”

“Shh, sweetheart, you’ll wake your brother,” Rachel quietly admonishes, tucking the blanket around her youngest and sitting on the edge of the bed. James Junior lays next to him, deeply sleeping, and though he’s known to sleep through hurricanes, Alex’s voice is like a wake up alarm for him. She definitely doesn’t want both boys awake this late without James there. It’s bad enough Alex ate a handful of sugar straight from the package when she wasn’t looking.

“Sorry, Maman,” Alex whispers, sweet as can be. “I jus’ wanna hear a story. A new one.”

He does this often, often enough that Rachel thinks of stories while she works for Mr. Stevens or does the housework. Today has been so hectic, though, that she hadn’t thought of anything, and right now, her mind is blanking. He likes stories with good men as the protagonist, good men who came from nothing and made something of themselves. It breaks her heart when she thinks about it, which she very pointedly doesn’t do if she can help it. Usually, when she can’t think of a new one, she’ll tell him true stories about her family or her life, but none of them have very many male role models for him.

_ There’s always…. _ She starts to think before cutting it off.  _ No. No, Rachel. You said you wouldn’t tell him, so  _ don’t.

“Do you want to hear about what your Uncle Peter — “

“No, Maman, I’ve heard that one already!” He has no idea what she was about to say, but still she doesn’t doubt him. There are only so many stories to shake out of one person, after all, and Rachel has told many of hers. Watered down versions, sure, but still true. “I want a new one!” She shushes him again, and he manages to look properly chastised for all for five seconds. “Sorry, Maman.”

“Don’t be sorry, just remember to whisper.” They’re both well aware he’ll forget the second something else catches his interest. It’s habit to remind him anyway, one Rachel hasn’t bothered trying to break. She tells him, “I don’t think I have any new stories tonight, sweetheart.”

Immediately, he turns his brown eyes on her, widens them like a pup, pouts his lip out. “Not even one?” He asks, and she wonders who taught Alex this — guilt tripping. There’s no time to dwell on it.

Why not tell him? It won’t hurt, you know it won’t. James Junior was too young to remember him, and James doesn’t listen to Alex long enough to hear his words…. 

_ No _ , she tells herself firmly. To Alex, she says, “Nope. I could tell you about Puerto Rico again?”

Seemingly put out, his sucks his lip back in, big eyes looking down. Oh, he’s a master at this. Worse is that she sees him in Alex, except he’d made that face in a slightly different context. Somehow, her resolve doesn’t break — it did, that day, and it’s what got her in this mess to begin with. (Not that Alex is a mess. Just everything about his conception and birth and much of what came after.)

“Fine,” he sighs, and is blissfully asleep by the time Rachel gets to the nitty gritty details of the beaches she saw.

 

 

Several nights later, James Junior is at a play date with his only friend on all of Nevis (and it makes her blood boil that so few people will allow their children to befriend him, all because he’s a _ mixed bastard _ ). James is still away, in Scotland she thinks, but it doesn’t matter where he is as long as it’s not here.

She doesn’t always feel that way. But then Alex asks repeatedly for a story during dinner, and the only one coming to mind is about him, and it’s good James Hamilton is gone.

There’s no talking herself out of it this time. Alex is insistent and all she can think is, where’s the harm?

“Finish your rice, and then I’ll tell you a new one about an old friend,” Rachel says, knowing it’ll be the only way to get him to eat now. His excitement always gets the better of him, and his basic needs. If he’s mastered puppy eyes, she’s mastered this — finding loopholes to trap him into being healthy.

He eats quickly, almost too quickly, and she has to remind him twice that if he eats too fast, he could choke. He whines but slows down.

“Tell me, tell me,” he chants once his bowl is clean.

She can’t help but smile at him, taking another bite to give herself some time. George hadn’t told her many stories of his time at war, except that he’d fought in Korea. What stories he had told her felt like they weren’t the whole story, but Alex has no need to hear real war stories. No child does.

She swallows, and begins with, “Before you were born, I met a man named George. George was a soldier who fought in the Korean war.” 

Alex’s eyes are already wide, all of his attention centered on her. He’s fascinated, hanging off her words, and dammit, he looks so much like George. A pang of…  _ something  _ hits her in the ribs, but she ignores it, and continues telling the story of what George called “the Braddock expedition”.

* * *

 

**PRESENT**

It takes half an hour to find Alexander.

He’s not exactly hiding, which is a good thing, but the state that George finds him in is awful. Sitting on the side of the road (which is enough to give George heart palpitations, never mind the rest of his condition), Alexander is sobbing. He’s visibly sweaty despite the chill in the air, and looks smaller than ever before. It makes George’s heart hurt, and the parental part of him immediately demands that George kill whoever or whatever has caused this. It’s ridiculous and he knows it, but that doesn’t stop him from pulling over, rushing out of the rented car, and hurrying to Alexander’s side. 

He announces himself with a simple, “Alexander,” and then drops to the ground beside his son. (Any initial doubt he had is long gone — Alexander is his son like how Jack is Martha’s. It’s the truest thing in the world.)

Alexander’s head swings over to see who’s said his name, and as soon as he sees George, he flinches. More tears sliding down his cheeks, he hides his face back in his hands.

George’s heart clenches painfully, and without thinking about it, he wraps Alexander in his arms. Alexander keens, a terrible sound George never wants to hear again, and throws himself at George, tucking his head under George’s chin. George rubs Alexander’s back, swaying them side to side. He makes soothing noises, and for long minutes, Alexander cries against his chest.

“I don’t know what to do,” Alexander finally wails, muffled but clear as day to George. “I — I thought leaving would — would,” he sobs again, and never finishes his thought.

There’s so much that George wants to ask, so much that he feels needs to be said. Why did you leave? What do you want? What can I do to help you? Why are you being so difficult? Most of all, he wants to shake Alexander and shout and demand that he never do this again. But George is no idiot. Shouting is a great way to make any kid clam up, and if there’s one thing he’s learned about Alexander in their short time together, it’s that he will take any excuse to not reveal himself too much.

Instead, he soothes the boy as much as he can. Gentle, the same way after Patsy has a seizure, he tells Alexander, “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here. It’s all alright.”

“No,” Alexander rebuffs against George’s chest, “It’s  _ not  _ okay!”

“Alex—”

“How can it be okay?” He pulls away from George, leaving him feeling more bereft that he cares to admit. Worse is that Alexander looks furious, eyes blazing in an uncomfortably familiar way. “My Maman is dead, and my brother is gone, god only knows where with an awful, drunk man who doesn’t care a wit about him! And then there’s you — you, trying to make it all better, like none of this ever happened. You and Martha want to take me to your home and act like I’ve always been there. But I can’t — “ Finally, he breaks off, eyes welling again with tears. “I can’t, George. I don’t want to forget Maman, or James, or this stupid island.”

His last words ring out against the trees, so that it feels almost like the island is listening, and it doesn’t like what it’s hearing. That, or it agrees. Either way, Alexander shrinks, his bony shoulders curling forward like he’s ashamed of himself. Like he can’t believe he’s said something derogatory against this place. He shakes his head, a sob busting free from his throat, and he immediately raises his hands to his eyes, pushing his palms in. 

It doesn’t hide the sounds of his sorrow, instead giving George a moment to take him in without Alexander’s piercing glare boring through him. This morning, when Alexander had freshly washed hair and moisturized skin from a shower, feels like a million years ago, and it looks like it too. His hair is limp with sweat, his skin pale except for spots where he’s obviously sunburned, and cheeks glisten with tears.

George wonders if he feels honor bound to this island, for being his home all this time, for being the place he was raised and where his Maman died and where he’s been reunited with new family at the same time he’s lost others.

He says, “You don’t have to.”

Sniffling, Alexander asks, “What?”

“You don’t have to forget this place. If you want to stay here, or come with us, or any kind of compromise in between, we will never try to force you to forget. This is your home, Alexander, and I’m very sorry that I or anyone has made you feel like leaving would mean forgetting.” He cups the back of Alexander’s head, more tender than he’s possibly ever been. His son stares at him, jaw clenched tight but eyes vulnerable. “I don’t want you bottling things up anymore, son. We need to talk about these issues, and we need to make sure they’re sorted out one way or the other. So if there’s ever something going on and you don’t like it,  _ tell me _ . I promise, whatever it is going on in your head, I can take it.”

The offer to talk is one Alexander seems reluctant to take. After a moment, he sniffles again. “What if I don’t want to come with you? Maman could’ve been lying, you know. God only knows if I’m really yours.” Then, like he’s settled a matter all on his own, “It would be better for everyone if I stayed.”

_ No _ , George’s heart stutters. It wouldn’t. Already, Martha and the children are getting used to Alexander, and with more time, he knows that they could come to love him. George himself can’t imagine a life without this boy in it. But that’s not what Alexander wants to hear. No, that would only make things worse. George takes a different approach, and allows himself to reveal something else to the boy. “With every passing day, I see more of myself in you. I’m certain, Alexander, that you are mine. I have no doubts at all. But if you truly wish to stay, we’ll work something out. And in that case, if you’ll allow it, I would like to make frequent trips here.”

“But—”

“It’s only proper that a man visit his son, after all.”

This time, Alexander doesn’t try to rebuke the point. Instead he says, “You barely know me, George. How can you possibly see anything of yourself in me? And why go to such trouble for a bastard?”

“I do believe I told you not to use that word again.” When Alexander shrugs, unashamed, George grits his teeth. Already, this boy is a pain in the ass, but he’d have it no other way. “As for what I see in you…, you are much alike your mother, but your eyes are like mine. They reveal your emotions as plain as any picture. You’re as stubborn as a bull, though that could’ve come from your mother, as well. But those teeth — those teeth are like mine.”

Alexander blinks, and then giggles like he can’t believe his ears. “My teeth?”

George smiles, reaching out to tilt Alexander’s head back some, like he’s inspecting his molars. “Yes, your teeth. They’ve seen much, Alexander, but never have they encountered a piece of fat they couldn’t chew on.”

His son laughs outright at that, shaking his head. “What does that even mean?”

“You know, I’m not sure. But come on, dear boy, we need to return to Martha and the children. It seems like we’ve got a lot to discuss.”

Alexander allows George to help him up. He stands shakily, and clutches his backpack to his chest. As George grabs his other bag, his legs noticeably wobble, his usually deeply tanned skinned pale in the weak winter sunlight. It seems plain as day to George that his fever is returning, and that he needs water as soon as possible. When he mentions this to Alexander, he repeats, “Water,” like he’s been lost in the desert for days and has just come upon an oasis.

It breaks George’s heart.

 

 

When they return to the hotel room, the first thing they do is settle Alex in on the couch, a glass of cool water in his hands and a blanket wrapped around his legs. He says, businessman-like, “We have a lot to discuss.”

“Alexander, sweetheart, maybe we should wait until—”

He shakes his head indignantly, and demands that they talk now. George and Martha share a look, realizing at the same time that they can’t argue in this case, and then send Jack and Patsy off to play in the lobby. George calls down to make sure the front desk doesn’t try to kick them out, also demanding in much the same way that Alexander just did that the man on the phone call if anything happens to this children.

Finally, they all sit down, and the very first thing Alexander says is, “I’ll go with you.”

Martha sits up straight, clearly thrown off. But considering that this is what they wanted, she’s certainly not unhappy. “That’s… that’s wonderful!”

“But I have some conditions, first.”

“Of course,” George says, not surprised.

Then Alexander lines them out: he doesn’t want to call them Mom and Dad, mostly in honor of his Maman ( _ though _ , he adds,  _ I might change my mind _ ), but he recognizes that they will be his guardians and therefore in charge of him; he wants to hang up a picture of Rachel in his room, or wherever he’ll be staying; he wants to go to school, please, please, he’ll be good, he knows school is hard for black kids in America but that’s okay, as long as he can go, it doesn’t matter to him—

George raises his hand. “Of course you can go to school, Alexander. We’ll make sure of it. And you can have as many pictures of your Maman as you want.”

“And you are in no way obligated to call us Mom and Dad, dear,” Martha adds. “Jack and Patsy didn’t call George ‘Dad’ for some time.”

“So — so it’s settled? I’m coming with you to Virginia?”

“Seems like it, dear,” George and Martha say.

Alexander slumps with relief. Then he says, voice light, “Sorry for running away.” Something about the way he says it implies that he can’t promise it won’t happen again.

George sighs, wondering what he’s gotten them all into, while Martha just laughs and pats his head. Her voice is steely, though, when she says, “You’re forgiven, but pull a stunt like that again, Alexander, and there will be an issue.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would really appreciate a comment <3


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